Love is for Children
by DawnieWrites
Summary: ...so let's regress. Clintasha Week 2012 on Tumblr. Clintasha week is over for now; if another one comes up, or if I write more one-shots that fit, I'll put 'em here.
1. A Different Call

**A/N: Okay, I'm late. So sue me. I actually have a life outside of the internet. Who knew?**

**Clintasha Week Day One**

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"_That's_ my target?" Clint asked, eyeing the red-head dancing on stage from his seat in one of the front rows. "Christ Coulson, she's just a kid!"

_"She has a kill count higher than yours Agent Barton,"_ Phil's voice reminded him. _"Do _not _underestimate her."_

"Yeah, yeah, I know. She's dangerous and a lethal weapon and I read the debrief," Clint sighed as the music wound down and the lights dimmed on the dancers taking their final bows; he stood, clapping with the rest of the audience before slipping into the aisle and disappearing into the thickening crowd of departing patrons, escaping into the storage room where he had stashed his weapon and gear. He changed into his field-suit, strapping his quiver to his back and removing his recurve from its briefcase before climbing up into the air vent and following it to the roof where he found the perch he had scouted the day before, waiting for his target to exit from the back.

"I should have eyes on the target soon. I'm going radio silent."

_"Understood."_ His earpiece fell silent and Clint unfolded his recurve, settling in to wait; he had been watching for the past week, waiting for an opportunity. The target always left the theater last, after everyone else was long gone. No-one knew what she was doing there, what her supposed end game was or if she had a target herself – maybe she just enjoyed dancing – but orders were orders and she was his target now.

An hour later, after the rest of the dancers and the maintenance men had left, he heard the door beneath him creak open one last time. He withdrew an arrow and knocked it in his bow, aiming for the space in the empty alleyway where he knew she'd be walking.

"_Я знаю, что вы там_," a distinctly feminine voice called, "_Вы можете также перестать прятаться._" Clint frowned, not moving an inch; he refused to believe that there was any way for her to know that he was there.

"_Мы искали для вас на некоторое время, Наталья_," a voice responded from the dark, causing Clint's eyes to widen slightly in surprise; he hadn't heard anyone approach.

"_Я полагаю, что вы нашли меня. Но вы знаете, что я больше не принимают заказы от Red Room_."

"_Я знаю_."

"_И я больше не принимают заказы от вас. Или кто-нибудь еще_."

"_Тогда вы знаете, почему мы здесь._" The redhead finally stepped into his line of sight, an ominous smile on her face. She was now dressed in a pair of fitted black pants and a turtleneck sweater, wedged boots on her feet and coat folded neatly over one arm, hair still rolled in a neat coif at the nape of her neck.

"_Да. Я знаю_." The coat dropped as two strangers stepped into the light, one of them obviously female based on her slight build.

"Why are bothering with words?" the strange woman asked in stilted English, causing the redhead's smile to widen.

"_Нетерпеливый, она бы и нет_?"

"_Правда, она не черная вдова. Пока нет_." The man responded; he turned at just the right angle so that Clint could see his face and the man smiled, a soft smile that belied the violent nature hidden beneath the surface.

"After all," the stranger interrupted, "you are still alive." She moved, a knife sliding out of the sleeve of her uniform as she rushed the redhead. Clint watched from the rooftop as the redhead blocked the strike without even blinking; the fight is over before it's even begun, the younger woman on the ground with the redhead standing over her, flat-edge of the knife digging into her throat.

"_Вы не должны были так старался быть лучшим._" And then she was dead, the blade of the knife drawn across her throat in a move so quick that if Clint had blinked, he would have missed it. The redhead stood up straight, turning to face the man.

"_Собираетесь ли вы убить меня сейчас тоже, Наталья?_"

"_Собираетесь ли вы дать мне причину, почему я не должен?_" The man just smiled again, stepping forward and leaning in to whisper something in the redhead's ear that draws a physical response from her; her eyes widened slightly and her fists clench at her side before the man disappeared from the alley. In that one instant, he made a different call; Clint flicked on the laser sight attached to his bow, just to alert the redhead to his presence.

"You finally decide to stop hiding then?" she called out softly, her English absolutely perfect, not a trace of an accent to be found.

"How long have you known I was here?"

"Since you started spying on me six days ago," she turned in the direction of the laser, face calm and impassive, hands now relaxed at her sides. "Well? Are you going to shoot me, or not?"Clint turned the laser sighting off, returning his arrow to the quiver just long enough to switch out tips before shooting a line across from the roof to anchor in the wall inches away from the redhead's face. He slid down the line and landed neatly on his feet in front of her.

"Not."

"American," she observed, her seemingly-relaxed stance a façade to all but the most trained and skilled in their field. "You were sent to kill me, am I wrong?"

"You're not; I was sent by S.H.I.E.L.D. They deemed you a threat the moment you popped up on their radar," he admitted with a wry smile. "But I've changed my mind." She tilted her head, encouraging him to continue, "I'd like to make you an offer, Natalia." The alley filled with a heavy silence before the redhead opened her mouth to speak, simultaneously raising her hands in submission.

"Call me Natasha." Clint's smile widened, hand lifting to re-activate his earpiece.

"Hawkeye to base; there's been a slight change of plans."

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(987 words)

**Russian translations:**

_"Я знаю, что вы там, Вы можете также перестать прятаться."_ - I know you are out there. You may as well stop hiding.

_"Мы искали для вас на некоторое время, Наталья,"_ - We have been looking for you for awhile Natalia.

_"Я полагаю, что вы нашли меня. Но вы знаете, что я больше не принимают заказы от Red Room."_ - I suppose that you have found me. But you know that I no longer take orders from Red Room.

_"Я знаю."_ - I know.

_"И я больше не принимают заказы от вас. Или кто-нибудь еще."_ - And I no longer take orders from you. Or anyone else.

_"Тогда вы знаете, почему мы здесь."_ - Then you know why we are here.

_"Да. Я знаю."_ - Yes. I know.

_"Нетерпеливый, она бы и нет?"_ - Impatient, is she not?

_"Правда, она не черная вдова. Пока нет."_ - True, she is no Black Widow. Not yet.

_"Вы не должны были так старался быть лучшим."_ - You should not have tried so hard to be the best.

_"Собираетесь ли вы убить меня сейчас тоже, Наталья?"_ - Are you going to kill me now Natalia?

_"Собираетесь ли вы дать мне причину, почему я не должен?"_ - Are you going to give me a reason why I should not?


	2. Budapest

**A/N: Clintasha Week - Day Two**

**Still late, I know. But at least it's something, right?**

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Budapest was a shit storm – that's one thing that both Clint and Natasha agree upon: the information was bad and the contact was worse. If you asked Natasha, the entire operation was FUBAR from the moment someone hacked their comm.-links and broke radio silence; if you asked Clint, the operation should have been scratched the moment it landed on Coulson's desk.

An undercover operation into a suspected child-trafficking ring running out of Budapest; intelligence suggested that the entire operation was being controlled by a well-respected Hungarian politician, so Natasha was automatically picked by Fury to go undercover. It was their first mission together after almost two months of solo operations for the both of them, but they had been partners for almost three years and had always worked well together. So it was no surprise that Coulson called both Natasha and Clint into his office for the mission details the moment that Clint stepped off of the quinjet from Venezuela.

Clint was against the mission from the get-go. He hated radio silence, especially while on mission with Natasha. She didn't talk much to begin with, but she was almost completely non-responsive while in the field, unless she was in the field with Clint. When the two of them were alone, the silence was almost comforting; but Clint hated not being able to communicate with her while on an op. It had taken her months to adjust to working with a partner after joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and even after she had adjusted, she still worked best with Clint.

But Budapest was bad.

What Natasha remembers is the firefight; waking up tied to a chair and surrounded by armed men working for a rich megalomaniac psychopath is not the most pleasant feeling in the world. She remembers escaping from the basement room where they had been keeping her captive. She remembers finding the two dozen missing girls, all dead, locked in the warehouse above the basement. She remembers stealing a gun from one of her captors and escaping outside into the chilly Hungarian night; Hawkeye found her, facing off against fifteen men twice her size, all far more heavily armed and better prepared. She remembers diving in front of a bullet for him anyway.

Clint remembers everything; he remembers arriving in Budapest a day after Natasha to find a leggy blonde in her place, clinging to the arm of a diplomat and playing the part of gorgeous American airhead to a 'T'. He remembers giving her the one-way communication necklace, a tiny inconspicuous dark green gem developed per his request by the S.H.I.E.L.D. research and development team, just so that he could hear her. He remembers her disappearing from his view of the crowded ballroom, no sound to be heard from the microphone embedded in the necklace. He remembers tracking the politician's bodyguard to an abandoned warehouse district off of the Danube. He remembers finding her, an almost feral snarl on her face as she fired a stolen gun. He remembers fighting together; remembers the sound of a shot firing; remembers her pushing him out of the way, falling to the ground before rolling back to her feet and grabbing the gun her kept in his thigh holster just for her.

Clint remembers the two of them, holed up in some shithole in a tiny little town just outside of Budapest, waiting for their extraction. He remembers Natasha muttering brokenly in a mix of Russian and English, sweating out the fever from the infected bullet wound in her side – the bullet wound meant for him. He remembers smoothing her hair back and muttering soothing words in her ear.

But what he remembers most is her one moment of clarity, when she grabbed his wrist firmly and looked at him with crystal clear eyes, pulling him down to eye-level. Her face shone with sweat and she reached up to touch his cheek before speaking slowly, voice hoarse and strained as she spoke words that he wouldn't be able to understand until months later, on their next undercover assignment, which ends, not in a firefight and guns and arrows and blood, but in harsh kisses and sweat and whispered words beneath heavy sheets.

"Являюсь ли я ребенка?"

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(702 words)

Russian translation:

*Am I a child?

(^if you don't get the reference, you obviously need to re-watch the Avengers movie.)


	3. Avengers

**A/N: Clintasha Week - Day Three**

**Late, I'm late!**

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There are days when Natasha flashes back to that first mission, when Loki came to Earth and rained hell down upon it in the form of an alien army. There are days, when the arguments are stupid and they can never agree on anything, and on those days she sincerely thinks that maybe Bruce Banner was right in his assessment. The Avengers are a time bomb of the greatest self-destructive possibility; and then there are the calm days.  
There are days in Avengers tower she spends sparring with Steve and comparing fighting techniques. There are days she spends locked in a game of chess, an intellectual battle of the brain with Bruce. There are days where Tony does not annoy her half as much as usual, and they discuss potentially useful upgrades to his Iron Man armor. There are the very rare days, on one of Thor's extended visits, when the two just sit and talk about the differences between their two worlds, and she opens his mind to the world of a tactician. There are days they spend picking their way through Tony's extensive DVD collection, educating Steve on modern pop culture. These days are her favorite; these days usually begin and end with her wrapped in Clint's arms, safe in one of their rooms in Avengers Tower.

But, in her professional opinion, they did not truly become a team, become the Avengers, until one of the worst possible scenarios occurred; Pepper was abducted on her way to the airport in California. Everyone was present in the lab, observing one of Tony and Bruce's latest experiments, when Tony received the ransom call. He was all set to pay it when JARVIS announced that he had been able to trace the call per _'Ms. Potts' backdoor programming, installed by Ms. Romanoff.'_ They had all silently agreed that no-one else was to get involved.

They were Avengers after all, and they took care of their own, and Pepper was one of theirs.

Later that night, after Pepper had been recovered safely from the clutches of her sloppy, would-be captors and was ensconced safely with Tony on his private floor of the tower, Natasha made it a point to ask Bruce:

"Are we still a time bomb?"

"Most definitely," he replied, not looking up from the computer he was working on, "we've just managed to install a longer fuse."

Natasha can't help but disagree. She and Clint were always partners, always a team; but she can't help but feel that the two of them have found a place here. No matter what, they would always be partners – they had been partners for too long and worked far too well together for that to ever change – but the word 'team' had taken on a whole new meaning for the both of them. They didn't trust people easily, but they trusted their team, trusted the Avengers, and they were prepared now; prepared for the monsters and the magic and every possibility in-between.

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**(498 words)**  
**Was very uncertain about the way this one came out…but I suppose it works.**

**And a note to my two reviewers so far, thank you so much!**


	4. Strike Team: Delta

**A/N: Clintasha Week Day Four**

**I re-wrote this FOUR times; it was being stubborn, but it finally came together…**

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She can feel the blood seeping through the fabric of her combat suit, knows that most of it is most likely hers, but she really could care less at this point. She lost her comm.-link somewhere in all of the fighting, but she knows that Clint will be waiting for her to return to the rendezvous point for at least a good six minutes more before he knows to go looking for her. She replaces the magazine in her handgun and dives into a roll from behind one slab of debris to another, letting off four shots and not bothering to check; she knows that she hit her mark.

She's starting to notice a pattern in their missions. She and Clint always get sent on the most difficult assignments, and always together. Their solo missions are challenging as well, but never anything as overbearing as São Paolo, or even Budapest. Fury always handpicks the two of them for the impossible jobs, the jobs that for almost anybody else would be a suicide mission, but for them are almost simple.

She's almost at the rendezvous point and she can feel herself slowing down, feels the blood grow thicker, and knows that she had better get there soon. There's a flash of something bright to her left and she turns just in time to catch sight of an explosive-tipped arrow fly past her and land in the wall of a building that most of the hostiles were standing next to. She doesn't waste any time; she takes the opening that he made for her and disappears into the access tunnel that leads directly to the hotel where their aliases have been staying.

Clint is waiting for her at the basement access door, his recurve already stashed in his briefcase at his feet and the duffel bag with their street clothes slung over one shoulder.

"I already checked us out. Our luggage is being shipped and our extraction is set," he informs her. She nods in acknowledgement, slipping her gun into its holster on her thigh. She winces as she reaches for the duffel bag and Clint notices the blood that is just starting to soak into the side of her uniform.

"Jesus Nat!" the duffel bag hits the floor and Clint grabs her shoulder, spinning her around and forcing her to sit down on the ground in front of him so that he can look at her back. "What the hell happened?"

"Someone got lucky," she replies simply, unzipping her now blood-stained suit and reaching for the duffel bag again. Clint sits down behind her and strips the fabric of her suit down her shoulders and off of her arm, exposing her torso until he found the source of the bleeding, a deep gash in her back from the middle of her left side cutting diagonally to just above her kidney.

"They almost got really lucky," he comments, pulling the duffel back out of her hands and reaching inside for the first aid kit.

"You blocked their means of communication?" she asks, pulling off the remains of her undershirt before he starts stitching her up.

"EMP arrow on the roof," he assures her.

"How long until the extraction?"

"Twenty minutes; extraction point is ten minutes out of town." They sit in silence until he finishes her stitches and flattens a piece of gauze over his handiwork. "Is it just me or are our assignments getting riskier and riskier?" he mutters wryly. Natasha rolls her eyes and pulls off her boots in order to finish slipping out of her suit, accepting the change of clothes he hands her.

"We're Delta for a reason Clint," she reminds him, pulling on the jeans and button-up shirt he had handed her before turning around to face her partner. "We're the only two crazy enough to even consider accepting these assignments." He smiles at her, stowing both of their uniforms in the now-empty duffel bag.

"Hawkeye to base," he says into his comm.-link, "Strike Team Delta is go for extraction."

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(673 words)


	5. Fluff-Feelings

**A/N: Clintasha Week Day Five**

**I focused on 'feelings', with a hint of fluff.**

**I'm catching up…**

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Natasha finds him on the roof of Avengers tower; not surprising really, considering what day it is. He's hanging his legs over the edge, a few empty bottles of cheap beer set on the roof next to him, one half-full one held limply in his hands.

"Been up here long?" she asks quietly, sitting down on his other side.

"Few hours," he admits, taking a swig of his beer.

"Liar," she whispers, nudging his shoulder. "You've been up here most of the day, haven't you?" his silence is answer enough.

"Where have you been?"

"Mission debrief; I got back late from my assignment last night." He nods in understanding.

"Do you ever wonder if we could have done anything differently?"

"Every time we go on a mission and I have to listen to Sitwell instead of…" she trails off and he turns his head to look at her.

"We're a mess."

"_You're_ a mess Barton; I'm slum chic," she denies, stealing his beer and drinking the last of it. He chuckles and lies down on his back.

"If Coulson could see us now –"

"He'd kick our asses," Natasha states, "half the time we're a team and the other half we're a disaster waiting to happen."

"He'd have us whipped into shape in no time," Clint agrees. She lies down next to him, basking in the silence; it's been exactly one year since the Chitauri invasion, since they became a part of the Avengers. It's been exactly a year since Phil Coulson had been killed by Loki.

Coulson had been more than just their handler; he had been a friend to them, a confidant. He had been a person that they could count on no matter what, a person other than themselves and each other. Natasha sets the empty beer bottle on the rooftop next to her and sighs.

"Nat?" she hums in acknowledgement, turning her head to meet his eyes. "What d'you believe in?"

"What do I believe in?" she repeated, "I'm not sure that I know what you mean."

"Do you believe in heaven? Or hell? Do you even believe in God?"

"I've seen hell Clint, we both have. Logically, if hell exists, then heaven must exist as well. But knowing what I know, and having seen the things we've seen, I don't know how anybody can believe in anything good."

"But…?" he prompts softly.

"But," she continues, one side of her lips quirking up in a smile. "I suppose that knowing all of that, makes me understand why people need to believe in something more."

"Doesn't answer my question."

"People," she states quietly after a moment. "I believe in people."

Clint smiles gently, his hand seeking out hers on the rooftop in-between them and twining their fingers together. If there was one thing that Phil Coulson had ever taught him, it was that people well and truly surprised you sometimes.

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(483 words)


	6. Friendship

A/N: Clintasha Week Day Six

Kind of short; but very sweet, I think.

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Natasha is sitting alone in the conference room, arms crossed on the table-top as she stares at the security footage from a few days ago. She has been staring at the security footage since the mission briefing almost an hour ago and it's actually starting to worry him. He steps into the conference room, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Natasha?"

"Did you know that I was married?" she asks suddenly. "At least, I think that I was. If I wasn't, then at least the Red Room made me believe that I was." He sits down next to her. "I don't remember him. But I remember Yasha - sorry; I remember James." She closes her eyes. "In a way, he was my first friend."

"Nat, are you okay?"

"I'm not…good at making friends. I can seduce the most dangerous of men but I can't form a lasting relationship." He's not even sure that she's listening to him. "After Ivan sent me to the Red Room, James trained me. But he wasn't like the Red Room's handlers; he cared."

"Tasha, look at me," he whispers, grabbing one of her hands in his. "We don't even know who this guy really is, if he even is the real Winter Soldier."

"He is the Winter Soldier," Natasha states confidently, opening her eyes to look at him. "I just hope that we find him before whatever is left of the Red Room does." Clint knows her; she's not the type of person to form meaningless attachments. So the fact that she is even willing to speak to him, to open up to him about something like this even after almost six years of partnership, (three of those years spent as being something even more than that), speaks volumes to him.

"You're my best friend, I hope you know that," Clint whispers.

"I think – I think that you're my best friend too," Natasha admits. "After all, I don't know all that many people who would dress up in full drag just to pull off an extraction for me," she teases; Clint smiles, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.

"I thought that we agreed to never, ever, mention that again," he moans.

"Yes, well, we wouldn't be best friends if we didn't embarrass each other every once in a while, or did you teach me wrong?"

"Nope; best friends embarrass the hell out of each other," he confirms; Natasha squeezes his hand.

"Thank you," she mutters just loud enough for his hearing aids to pick up.

"Everybody needs a friend," he reminds her, "even if it's just so they have someone to complain to – or about."

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(443 words)


	7. Alternate Universe

**A/N: Clintasha Week Day Seven**

**ON TIME! (By half an hour but meh…semantics)**

**This is the last one; and OMIGOD I actually managed to finish them all…**

**My idea for this, (which may or may not be expanded on in the future) is that Natasha's parents were at the head of some crime family when they died; her uncle takes over and adopts her formally. She's all set to be married off to the son of some rival crime family when she meets Clint Barton - orphan, recently dragged by his brother into becoming part of the family. Needless to say, he falls hard for the redheaded mystery girl of the Romanoff crime family.**

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She's already waiting for him in the church when he arrives, sitting in the very back pew, hands clasped and apparently praying. She's quite beautiful, even in the plain dress her adoptive father provides for her. He slides into the pew next to her, lightly touching her shoulder to alert her to his presence.  
"Did you have any trouble getting out of the house?" he whispers. She shakes her head, red curls bouncing in the light of the candelabras.

"I am not sure about this anymore," her voice is shaking and he can see the fear in her eyes; her adoptive father has always scared her. The owner of the Red Room bar in town and head of the local crime syndicate, he has many friends and is extremely influential; but Clint has seen the bruises that everyone else seems to be able to ignore, and he can't just look away.

"Tasha, look at me," she does so, meeting his eyes and relaxing a bit. "You trust me don't you?"

"Of course I trust you Clint!"

"And you don't want your father to marry you off to that abusive bastard who dares call himself a man, do you?"

"He's not that bad," she denies, frowning.

"Natasha I can tell! I may be an orphan and at the bottom of the metaphorical food chain, but even I can tell that you deserve better than what your father is giving you," he hisses quietly.

"But he says –"

"He's wrong; did you ever think about that?" she remains silent and Clint grabs her hand, frowning when she flinches away from him at first. "Ivan," he spits the name like a curse, "is a manipulative ass who only cares about using you as a pawn in his twisted game of chess."

"Alexi loves me."

"No he doesn't," Clint whispers. "Alexi loves Ivan's approval and money and power."

"I'm scared!" she admits finally.

"What is there to be afraid of?" Natasha bit her lip, clutching the handle of the small bag she had packed. "What do you want to do?" Clint asked gently.

"I…I want to run. I want to run as far away from here as I possibly can. And I want you to come with me," she finally admits, clutching his hand tightly.

"Then that's what we'll do," he promises. "Tonight; we'll leave New York. Travel as far to the other coast as we can manage."

"Somewhere sunny?"

"With warm summers and cool winter," he agrees. "California, or maybe someplace in the South; Ivan will never be able to find us, he'll never be able to touch you again." She smiles at him, the first time she does so all night.

"We'll have a life."

"We'll have a future," he corrects, "outside of the Family. We'll be safe." She leans forward and kisses him, a gentle meeting of lips and tongues, and it's one of the best feelings in the world.

"We'll have a real family."

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(495 words)


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